I own nothing. The CW, Kripke, etc. have all the rights. Trust me: no money is coming my way.
It burns. Every inch of this flesh and bone prison is on fire, incinerating him from the inside out. His limbs feel like they're lying in a forge, great heavy pieces of molten metal, immobile, slowly warping with the heat. The forge's hammer is currently located somewhere in his skull, and it beats out a steady tattoo of pain. Thin rasping voices, chase themselves in and out of the pounding rhythm. He can hear cursing and screaming...tortured voices, hoarse with agony. And suddenly, the flames lick upward in front of his eyes...he can see them, blurred but horribly familiar. This is hellfire, greedily licking upwards from the pit, scouring the souls who can do nothing but scream their unending agony, a profane mockery of the angelic choirs above. He's back in Hell, and this time, he knows, there's no salvation.
Coolness. A cool, soothing weight settles on his brow, a benediction, in the midst of the punishing heat. The screams grow in intensity, as though protesting this favouritism, but his unseen saviour continues his ministrations.
He needs to be strong. He can't give in to the gnawing agony; the raging heat, that threatens to burn away what little light he can still feel in his soul. But he's tired. He's been fighting for too long, alone, spiralling down and down through this abyss...
He hears his name. It's a whisper amid the screams of the damned. It tugs at him, urges him toward something. Through the chaos and torment, he strains to hear it. It brushes, insistently against his mind, and somehow he knows it's connected with the cool touch of this one who has come to save him from this suffering. He tries to focus on it, block everything else out, except for the sound of his name...
A second voice, venomously seductive with the offer of a different kind of relief, shatters his concentration.
I don't understand why you're fighting me...
No! He tries to block out this new voice, beckoning him back down into the dark. No....
Why not serve your own best interests...
No, no, no,no...
The light is bright, too painful as his eyes fly open and the images of the far reaches of hell dissipate and shrink back into the floral wallpaper. He's choking, like a drowning man on his own mantra of denial, still spilling out from his chapped lips.
He shudders to a halt, and lays there, limbs shaking, disoriented.
"Easy, hey..." Firm, cool hands come to rest on either side of his face, until he's able to meet the pair of green eyes that stare down at him full of worry.
His voice sounds scoured dry.
"You were dreaming," the man tells him, half reassurance, half wonder. "I mean...It was a dream right? Not some freaky angel psychic thing?"
The words blend a little, blurring their various meanings together in his overwrought brain.
"Cas?" Dean taps his cheek lightly, "You with me?"
He manages to nod slowly, feels Dean's fingers slide to his neck to feel his pulse. It feels like his heart is trying to pound a hole in his chest. Dean must feel it too, because he frowns and takes the cold compress from his feverish forehead and runs it down his neck, over the tight, aching muscles there. He rings it out over the ice bucket, by his knee and soaks it again.
'Dude," Dean shakes his head, and precisely re-folds it, "You were seriously freakin' out for a while there."
The edges of his vision keep on swarming with little white dots, in a distinctly distracting fashion, and his limbs are shaking like they have a mind of their own. He once would have found it fascinating, this involuntary movement, this disconnect between the will, the brain, and the body. But at this moment, more important than the contemplation of the wonder and complexity of the human body, is his need to stop these little shivers and spasms from sending more torment through his aching joints.
The cold compress returns, blessedly, and Dean rests a firm hand on his shoulder. His eyelids feel heavy, as unconsciousness beckons. But that way lies dreams... He forces his leaden eyes open, and inhales sharply. Standing just over Dean's shoulder, is Raphael. The archangel shakes his head disapprovingly at Castiel's state.
Dean, oblivious to the danger, but having felt him tense, gently massages the rigid muscle under his palm.
"It's Ok, Cas."
His lips move soundlessly, and he chokes on a gasp, as Zacariah joins Raphael, a smug smile of satisfaction, slipping over his features.
Dean's frown deepens, "Cas?"
He feels Dean's other hand come to rest on his brow comfortingly, but the human remains oblivious to the two angels standing with patient malice just behind him. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing, praying that maybe this is somehow another dream.
He hears the human curse and he opens his eyes quickly, to find Dean on his feet, scrabbling for Ruby's knife. Zacariah and Raphael have vanished.
Pestilence stands in the doorway. The horseman turns, looks down at him, and her lips curve into a smile.
Had to get that out of my system while I wait for the return of the new episodes. "Hi my name is Celtic Amazon, and I'm addicted to Supernatural." Admittiing it is the first step.
This is my first fic in the fandom, so it may or may not continue. My muse she is fickle! Almost as fickle as real life demands which apparently are more important than writing fanfic. Huh...Who knew? But well if you're at this note, then you read it! So thanks! :D